Static
by lyricalmadness
Summary: This new Kurt is too bright tinged in the neon of New York. Blaine doesn't know how to learn this Kurt. Also known as, the one where Kurt is a little self-absorbed and Blaine is a lot emotionally need. Or the one where they talk and Blaine has some agency. Or the one where Kurt chooses New York and Blaine needs to figure out how to be himself.


**_Author's Note: I confess that I haven't actually seen The Break Up because I don't have a TV and I have an extremely ancient computer that does not stream videos. I also don't typically write prose (currently obtaining an mfa in poetry) and I am horrible with dialogue so please forgive me. This piece is basically set around reactions I have seen and some stuff I have seen posted that has disturbed me. I also realize that many people will not like my portrayal of either Blaine or Kurt (but especially Kurt) and I am really ok with that but please don't blast me. I really mean no harm. I decided not to use __Teenage Dream_ because I cannot stand Katy Perry (although I do love Darren's cover or it) and the cliches in the song drive me insane. The song in its place is Sleeping by The Swell Season. All the mistakes in this are mine and mine alone. Thank you for reading and not yelling at me.**

* * *

_But, you will say, we loved_

_and some parts of us loved_

_and the rest of us will remain_

_two persons. . . . _

Jack Spicer, "A Book of Music."

The night is compressed into a green smear between looming buildings. There is a smallness, an otherness, to walking down an unfamiliar street when the night is late enough to feel sleepy and thick even as the city thrums beneath asphalt. He feels it, the uncertainty of always moving, buzzing effervescent and always there under his feet. It makes him feel jittery like his skin is stretched to tight and he needs to unhinge his ribs to breathe. Everything is to big as people spill around him jostling in the browngreen clink of words and stale syrah. It is easy to feel nothing here but he isn't unfamiliar with that emptiness. Vehicles blare their alien obscenities, impatient and relentless, as he crosses over to a side street. Elm-lined and lonely, the brownstones blink yellow onto the deserted street. He slows. Hazy air clings in the space between his shoulder blades and he feels the chilled October air seep sticky under his pea coat. He needs the sting in his cheeks, the cold prick in his chest, to last a little longer. Another block. The brick building is unassuming, tall, and weather washed, nestled between similar buildings with gold numbers settled high over the front door. He slips in behind a pizza delivery guy and counts the creaks in the steps as he climbs up to the long, whitewashed hallway on the fifth floor. The numbers on apartment 503 are dull and slightly crooked in the thick frame of the oak door. His hands, foreign and uncontrolled, shake three stutters onto the door. He waits.

There was no conscious need to fill the hollowness that makes it hard to breathe. He did not hang out at Scandels looking for some sort of relief nor did he go searching for Eli. Blaine runs into him, literally – a hard thud that sends his phone crashing to the laminate floor of Crossroads, a vintage store in Westerville. The boy, blonde and loose limbed in the way teenage boys are whom are not quite use to their bodies, scoops it up and hands it back with a crooked smile and a witty reply on his lips. Blaine smiles and it doesn't ache quite as much as usual. Eli is a photographer with a fearless need to look and study, to shift lenses and point of views. He is careless with his affection and asks Blaine nonsensical what-ifs (what if you were president, what if you were an ant, what if you could not feel pain, _what if_). They spend the afternoon bathing in the last tendrils of fall heat as they wander the streets, Blaine in a new bowler hat and Eli with his camera draped over his shoulder, and find themselves in a small park. It is easy to like the heat of another person, to rock in the tides of another's voice, and let touches ease the tenseness of shoulders and other tightly furled things. Eli talks to him, asks questions, and slowly the dark fist of loneliness uncurls. It is too easy and it scares him.

Kurt is laughing when he opens the door, head thrown back and breathless. Blaine curls under his stare, folds in upon himself, before pressing forward and wrapping himself in the warmth of the taller boy. Arms wrap firm and grounding around him – anchors as he melts. Somehow, Kurt manages to crab walk them away from the threshold and over to the couch.

"Breathe, Blaine," Kurt whispers as he sinks backwards into the couch. "Take deep breaths. You're all right."

The door slams shut again, the building croaks a full-bodied groan, and Kurt pulls him into the cradle of his body. They stay that way, oscillating in the silence, while Blaine slowly unzips his skin, let's himself expand and embrace. Long fingers work through the fine hair at the base of his skull trailing down to the first notch of his spine and back up. He settles, limbs loose, pliant, face tucked into the soft space between the shoulder and neck where Kurt smells the most like long summer days.

"Blaine, sweetie," he murmurs, voice throaty and deep, lips brushing against his temple. "Please tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me."

He shudders a breath and pulls away. Kurt's eyes are wet, a deep, matte blue that fade into the dark circles under his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut and tips forward until his forehead is pressing into Kurt's temple.

"I met someone," he starts soft. The body underneath him tenses and stutters. "Nothing happened but it could have."

He can feel Kurt fight. Hands clench and unclench trying to decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

Kurt sucks in a breath, holds it for a count of three. "Why?"

The first time Blaine feels truly alone is near the end of fourth grade, at the academic achievement awards, when he looks out at the sea of parents and doesn't find his. They decided to take Cooper to an audition in Columbus and sent his baby-sitter to pick him up. Kerry-Ann Desoto had bottle-blonde hair and red lacquered nails. She was an hour late picking Blaine up after the ceremony. He sat by himself on the bench outside of his school, certificate of achievements in music and reading comprehension held tightly to his chest, until Kerry-Ann arrived in her yellow VW Bug. When he got home, he tucked them gently into a drawer and waited in his room for his family to return. They went out to eat that night to toast Cooper's blossoming career and no one mentioned Blaine's school awards. He didn't say anything, either. Four and a half years later, he came out to his father in his study. His father avoided him until he decided they needed to bond over something "manly," like rebuilding a car. After the hospital, after he was beaten within an inch of his life for standing next to another gay boy in a public parking lot, his father never knew what to say. He never really tried to understand.

He separates himself from Kurt. Pushes into the corner of the couch, brings his knees up to his chest, and compresses himself small. Except when he is on stage, Blaine has always felt tiny, insignificant. Now is no different. Kurt, too, wraps his arms around himself – bolsters for the storm.

Blaine starts and stops, lips forming silent words, before stilling and breathing. "Do you know how terrified I was before the debate? My head was so full of static. I needed to talk to you about it."

Kurt stares at him with wide, steady eyes. Bottom lip red and slightly swollen as his teeth scrape incessantly over it. "We talked that night."

"We did," Blaine nods when Kurt trails off. "We did and you were so excited about your video. I love that you are so excited. You deserve this but . . ." he trails off, gaze flicking down to his hands and that loose thread on the couch, before meeting Kurt's eyes again. "You talked for over an hour about your video and then you had to go. It wasn't just that night, Kurt."

Kurt reaches for Blaine, let's his hand hover in the empty space, before he drops it to the middle cushion, palm up. "I'm so sorry."

Blaine shakes his head. "I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to listen." He waits for a nod and continues. "The night after the election, I waited for you to call until two in the morning. You said you would after your work function but you never did. When you did call, all you did was talk about the amazing blues club Chase took you to. I should have made you listen. I should have told you how I felt but my life doesn't compare to yours. That was the first time I realize I didn't fit. It escalated from there. You would ignore my calls. Your emails were about everything you were doing and the amazing people you were meeting. And then you didn't tell me you loved me. You hung up on me. It was the first time you didn't say you loved me and it hurt more than anything else." He pauses again, breathing hard, tears winding down the plains of his face. "The day you hung up on me was the day I met Eli. We spent the day wandering around Westerville and ended up in a little park off a side street. He talked to me, Kurt. He wanted to know about me. We met for coffee a couple of times and saw a movie. After the movie, he tried to kiss me but I pushed him away. You've got to believe me, Kurt."

"I do, sweetie. I do." He whispers, ragged and desperate.

"Kurt," he murmurs crowding into the taller boy once again, "you are the love of my life but I can't be the cast off. I can't."

Kurt doesn't speak. He intertwines their legs, clutches him to his chest, buries his nose in Blaine's hair, and breathes. The quiet is expansive and he can hear every hitch of breath, a siren slowly climbs through the window, echoey and distant, and he absorbs Blaine's heat. Kurt has been cold for so long. Blaine draws a hand down his side, slots his fingers between his ribs, and presses in, weighty, solid.

"You know when I first met you I thought you were invincible," Kurt starts, more rumble then actual sound, as he buries his fingers into the strands of Blaine's hair. "I used to be so afraid of keeping up with you. People fall madly in love with you, Blaine. It is easy to forget that you have been hurt, too. I get so wrapped up in everything; I forget you need to be reminded of how much I love you. Because I do, Blaine. So much." Blaine angles his head upwards, steals a sweet kiss. "I waited for you at Dalton and I am going to wait for you here. Never forget that. But this is my life now. I work too many hours, I get caught up in projects, and I am meeting new people that actually understand why I am doing this. I want to tell you all about it because I need you to love it, too. I am so sorry that I forgot about the election. I am so sorry that I forgot how scary being left behind can be but I am not going to stop being here. I'm not going to stop living my life here."

The quiet stretches tight, sleepless with no answers. Blaine is shaking, exhausted and wound tight, and he can't figure out what to do next. His thumb rasps against the slight stubble growing in on Kurt's jaw, trails over his bottom lip, across a cheek bone, and back down to his pulse point. Every feature is so familiar under his fingertips and it hurts.

"What do we do now?" His voice wavers.

Kurt slowly detangles himself. "What I do know is that it is approaching 4 AM and I want to know what it is like to sleep next to you."

Blaine scrubs a hand down his face, nods, and let's Kurt pull him to his feet.

The morning is late, burnt orange and gorgeous, when Blaine wakes, too hot and sticky, encircled in Kurt's arms. Regardless of his discomfort, he turns, slow, and settles in closer. He presses his forehead against Kurt's clavicle, breathes in morning skin and salt, and let's his fingers trace mazes over the tight skin of his navel. For a little while, he seems to float in the space between full consciousness and sleep where everything is gentle waves and soft static that clings in thick fog. He lingers in weightless contentment, until Kurt stretches long, joints popping back to use. Blaine blinks once, twice, and presses flush against the length of Kurt's side.

Long fingers sweep up his back, pressing into the valleys of his spine, before twisting into the ragged mess of his hair. "I love you."

"I don't know if that's enough," Blaine murmurs. His lips brush against Kurt's pulse point, against the hinge of his jaw.

Kurt turns them; forearms bracket Blaine's head, and forehead finding rest on Blaine's temple. "It is enough for right now. It is enough for today."

Blaine remembers a time when he could not look at Kurt as a whole. When staring at this boy was so overwhelming that he couldn't function. He couldn't breathe or begin to understand why this boy left him stumblestuttering over every little thing. So he learned Kurt in syllables. He could handle him in pieces, in syntactical chunks and clauses, which he could slowly construct and absorb. Kurt's hands and how they fluttered and flickered in excitement, how they felt wrapped around his hands (later, how they traced moremoremore over thighshipsback), and how they stilled and clenched when he was angry, was what he learned first. Then came the sturdy strength of his forearms, the curve of his bicep, how his shoulders looked when he was comfortable in his body. It took him weeks to learn the length of his legs and the jut of his hips. Blaine learned to play his ribcage and how his abdominal muscles relaxed and contracted in shivers. The tendons of his neck were a preview to the curve of his jaw and that sensative spot behind his ear. Blaine loved that spot. There is the quiet bridge of cheekbone, the freckles that spread across his nose, and the way he chews on his bottom lip when he is nervous. Blaine fell in love with the notches of his spine, the baby soft hair at the base of his skull, and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. Almost a year passed before Blaine could step back and see Kurt as whole, as someone that completely encompasses him. Now, as the morning shifts into afternoon, he does not want to see him as a whole, as someone who is fully separate and is capable of existing beyond the parameters of his knowledge. This new Kurt is too bright tinged in the neon of New York. Blaine doesn't know how to learn this Kurt.

It is easy to not talk when they are wrapped around each other naked, sated, and surrounded by a cocoon of blankets. He wants to ask if Kurt will make more time for him. Wants to ask If he will try harder but those words get stuck in his trachea. They stick and scratch his throat raw so he doesn't. Instead, he tips his head down and kisses the crown of Kurt's head. Kurt's phone chirps, jarring and loud in the stillness.

He hums as he quickly flicks through his text messages. "Rachel wants to go to a piano bar tonight. Do you want to go? A lot of the NYADA students hang out there. It's pretty fun."

"Sounds fine," Blaine shrugs rolling over to the other side of the bed and swinging his legs over the side.

Kurt crawls over to him, wraps himself around the shorter boy, and presses his lips to his shoulder. "We don't have to go if you don't want to. We can get dinner or stay in if you want."

"It's fine," he said closing his eyes and leaning back into Kurt's heat. "We should hang out with your friends."

"What do you want to do until then?" Kurt asked dragging his lips over the shell of Blaine's ear.

Blaine slumped forward out of Kurt's arms and onto his feet. "Whatever you want to do is fine. I'm going to go shower."

The piano bar is dim and lovely with a mahogany bar stretching one long side, little circular tables dotted around the open space, and a small, raised stage is pushed against the back wall with a baby grand sitting inconspicuously in the middle. It is the early part of late night when he and Kurt push their way through the growing crowd and find Rachel and Brody at a table close to to the stage. Rachel smiles sweetly and squeezes his hand as he settles into the middle seat with Kurt to the outside. Some miscellaneous raven-haired girl is singing a passable rendition of _Jar of Hearts _and he lets his mind wander through the clusters of people who sway and cling to the music and each other. It is nothing like the grim of Scandels or the clubs he imagined when New York was just a big idea, a dream to share with Kurt. He watches a few rounds, quiet, and smiles at the over dramatization of the partially drunk people in the room. Kurt is a solid presence, not touching, but hovering close enough to feel the hesitance in his body. A flash of movement catches his eye and he swivels just in time to see a long, lean man in an immaculate suit weave his way through the crowd and sling himself down in the chair next to Kurt.

"Hello gorgeous," he says settling an arm around the back of Kurt's chair. "You haven't been responding to my texts."

Blaine sees it. Sees the easy familiarity. The way Kurt preens and smirks under the attention.

"My life does not revolve around you, Chase." Kurt says, teasingly sly.

The older man removes his arm, tilts his head back, and laughs.

"Now," Chase says after he regains his composure, "who is this little darling you are hiding from me, Kurt?"

"Chase this is Blaine. Blaine meet Chase." Kurt rolls his eyes before turning towards Blaine. "He is harmless. I promise."

"Ah, you are the 'I will call him later,' boy," Chase grins as he steals a sip of Kurt's drink. "It is nice to put a face to the voicemails."

Blaine blinks hard, removes his hand from under Kurt's, and makes his way to the stage when his name is called.

Blaine has always been the person who wants to say things. Who wants to correct people when they assume things or when they say something offensive. He doesn't, though. He keeps it inside and replays every incident until he explodes. Sometimes the people deserve it. Sometimes they don't but it still leaks out in steady snatches, in steam and anger and words that he would never usually use. He started boxing to control his release and, at first, he punched until his knuckles were raw and bloody inside the gloves. He hit and hit and hit until his legs gave out and he couldn't lift his arms. He went back to the gym the next day and hit the bag until he could no longer feel the ache in his arms and the tenderness in his knuckles. If his body hurt, his mind did not. But then he gets busy and spending hours at the gym is not possible. The pressure builds when he transfers to McKinly. Finn pushes and pushes and Kurt dismisses it as the usual inter-club jealousy and doesn't stand up for him. He comes apart a little bit when he is dismissed again and poor Sam is caught in the blow out. He starts boxing again and breathes and let's everything slip through him again until he can smile at Finn and not say the things he wants to say.

He does not hear Kurt's reply. He does not hear if Kurt defends him or not. All he knows is that he can breathe under the stage lights. The microphone squeaks slightly has he adjusts the height and he is there, in the light, with the shuffling murmur of a crowd. He wants to say those words he holds inside. He wants to yell and feel something other than the claustrophobic feeling of being alone.

"This song is for the love of my life, my best friend, and I," his voice shakes as he breaks off and closes his eyes. "I hope it is alright that it isn't a cover. I wrote it last week and I hope you like it."

His fingers ghost over the opening chords and grow steady over the easy give of the keys. The song builds and falls, slowly, sad and alone with only the piano. He doesn't look at Kurt. He can't or else the words will not come. So he closes his eyes and sings:

"Are you sleeping?

Still dreaming?

Still drifting off alone?

I'm not leaving with this feeling

so you better best be told.

And how in the world did you come

to be such a lazy love?"

The words are thick and slow on his tongue. The song grows, moves on, and he feels stronger. He feels less like he is turned inside out. So he chances a glance at Kurt, sees the way his hand is clasped over his mouth, his knitted eyebrows, and cannot look away. A part of him feels like Kurt is finally listening to him and that Kurt cannot simply dismiss him when he his on stage. He feels like he has a voice and it makes him want to cry. There is cheering when he is finished. He registers it in the back of his mind and slowly leaves the stage after whispered thanks. The crowd around the stage parts and he is sluggish as he snakes back to the table. Chase is still there, a knowing smile plastered across his pretty face, and, suddenly, Blaine cannot breathe again.

"I need some air." He mutters loud enough for Kurt to hear as he passes the table.

He doesn't look back to see if Kurt follows him or not.

The cold kneads needles into his exposed skin as soon as he steps outside. He likes it. The rough exterior of the wall pulls at the fabric of his clothes as he slumps against it and curls his arms around himself. He doesn't know how long he stands there, eyes focused on the cracks in the cement, until Kurt pushes through the doors and hands him his coat.

"I paid the tab." Kurt says, voice soft. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

They walk for awhile, in silence, shoulder brushing sometimes. He focuses on the way people skirt around them, the groups that laugh and jostle together, and the sound of the traffic, not the way Kurt doesn't look at him. Kurt stops by the fountain and turns towards him.

"You know Chase didn't mean what he said about you." Kurt offers.

"He is right, Kurt. I am that boy who leaves you messages." Blaine shakes his head.

Kurt wraps an arm around his waist and looks up from the ground. His eyes are dark and wet and a little haunted. "I always want you. I waited for you."

"Goddamnit," Blaine mutters dragging a hand through his hair. "Will you ever stop holding that over my head? I am so sorry that it took me longer to recognize my feelings for you, Kurt. I feel like I still have to make it up to you. It's always been about you, Kurt."

"I -" Kurt's voice breaks, "I don't understand."

"I love making you happy. It is one of my most favorite things and you absolutely deserve to be happy." Blaine whispers, hand twists around his wrist, thumb sweeping back and forth over the delicate skin of his inner wrist. "When was the last time you did something purely because it would make me happy?"

Kurt doesn't pull away, doesn't try to realign their hands, and doesn't try to speak. His mouth works on silent words.

"I went to junior prom for you. I was so nervous that I threw up right before you came to pick me up. Last time I went to a dance I woke up in a hospital. I would be happy if I never went to another dance but I went, anyway. I agreed to go so I wouldn't disappoint you, Kurt. Then you asked me to transfer to McKinly so your senior year would be better. Your senior year, Kurt. What about me? The Warblers were my friends and I left them or you. I was an outsider at McKinly, ostracized by almost everyone in glee club, and you did nothing. You didn't even stand up for me, Kurt." Blaine pauses, waits for Kurt to interrupt, and tries to calm the dull ache blossoming between his ribs before he continues, "and then you left. You moved away and I understand that. All I wanted was for you to want to talk to me. I wanted you to hear me when I said that I missed you, that I needed you, that I didn't know how to be in Lima without you, but you didn't."

Kurt swallows wet, reaches forward and cups Blaine's cheek. "I love you, so much, but I don't know what you want me to do."

Blaine steps back out of Kurt's reach. "I want you to try harder. To call me back and actually want to talk to me. I want you to want to be with me. I want to promise to make more time with me."

"I don't know if I can promise you that," Kurt whispers thick and low.

Blaine looks up at Kurt through his lashes. His skin feels tight, sticky. "Ok. That's ok."

They don't sleep when they get back to the apartment. The curl and uncurl parenthesis around each other, create brackets, and sort memories into them ("so many pirate jokes, Blaine."). Around dawn, Blaine whispers, uneven and ragged, that he needs to learn how to be himself not some extension of Kurt. Kurt nods his understanding in the space between his shoulder blades. Kurt asks if they can talk when he gets back for Christmas and Blaine agrees against his lips. They run the shower cold, together as they slide and settle in steam, and Kurt cooks granola pancakes while Blaine chops a medley of fruit. The knowing is not the hard part and, when Kurt lets him go at the security checkpoint, he smiles, a little sad, and doesn't say goodbye.


End file.
